PS 

2693 

W3 

1909 

MAIN 


B    3    315    E 


A  WAYSIDE  LUTE 


Lydia  Is  Gone  This  Many  a  Year  was  printed 
originally  in  Harper's ;  The  Lark,  The  Dust,  A 
Christmas  Folk-Song  in  Lippincott' 's  ;  other  poems 
in  Scribner's,  The  Independent,  etc.:  for  their 
inclusion  in  this  volume  the  author  desires  to 
acknowledge  the  courtesy  of  the  publishers. 


A  WAYSIDE  LUTE  BY 
LIZETTE  WOODWORTH 
REESE 


PORTLAND  MAINE 

THOMAS  B  MOSHER 

MDCCCCIX 


COPYRIGHT 

THOMAS   B    MOSHER 

1909 


TO    THE    MEMORY 

OF 

EDMUND    CLARENCE    STEDMAN 
DEAR    FRIEND 


House,  how  still  you  are  ; 

Hearth,  how  cold  ! 

He  was  vital  as  a  star, 

As  the  April  mold. 

Friend  and  singer,  lad  and  knight, 

Very  dear  ;  — 

Hearts,  how  bare  the  dark,  the  light, 

Since  he  is  not  here  ! 

June  75,  7909. 


304282 


CONTENTS 


TODAY 

THE    HOUSE    OF    THE    SILENT    YEARS 

HERBS 

SPICEWOOD 

THE    COOL    OF    EVENING 

BY    THE    RIVER        .... 

THE    DUST 

TEARS  

THE    GHOSTLY    MAYERS 

LYDIA    IS    GONE    THIS    MANY    A    YEAR 

WRIT    IN    A    BOOK    OF    WELSH    VERSE 

TO    ART  

THE    CRY    OF    THE    OLD    HOUSE 

TAPS 

IN    PRAISE   OF   COMMON   THINGS      . 
OH    GRAY   AND    TENDER    IS    THE    RAIN 
AFTER  ..... 

THE    VALENTINE    .... 
WITCH    HAZEL 

THE    LARK 

A    CHRISTMAS    FOLK-SONG 

BIBLE    STORIES        .... 

SPINNING    TOPS 


3 

8 

9 
ii 

12 

I3 
'5 
16 

*7 

18 

J9 

20 
21 
24 

25 
27 
28 
29 
30 
3i 
32 
33 
35 


vn 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE    MYSTERY %.  36 

GOOD    FRIDAY          .            .             .             .             .             .  37 

THE    CHERRY    BOUGHS 38 

WILD   GEESE             .            .            .            .            .            .  39 

THE    UNFORGOTTEN    THINGS  ....  41 

THE    SHADOW    ON    THE    DIAL               ...  42 

THE    WAYFARER 43 

THE    PLOWMAN 45 

SASSAFRAS     .......  46 

THE    FOLD 47 

THE   YOUNG   MOTHER 48 

HOMESICK 49 

THE   STUBBLE 50 

A   LITTLE   SONG   OF    LIFE          .            .            .            .  51 

COMING    BACK 52 

THE   THREE   WREATHS                .            .            .            .  53 

THE    DAFFODILS 54 

THE    ROOM 55 

THE    CRAB   APPLE    TREE            .             .             .             .  56 

THE    HERETICS 57 

FOR   A    GUEST    CHAMBER            .             .             .             .  59 

TO    ONE    LONG    FORGOT               .             .             .             .  60 

THE    LAST    LOVER 6 1 

THE    BROKEN   SOLDIERS             .            .            .            .  62 

AN   APRIL   GHOST              .            .            .            .  63 

AT   COCKCROW        .            .           V           *        :    .'            .  64 

HER   SON        .            .            .            .•          .•          ••         .'  65 

IN    MEMORIAM         .            .-           .-                                     .  66 

viii 


A  WAYSIDE  LUTE 


TO-DAY 

S  there  but  emptiness  from  sky  to  sky  ; 

A  hollow  where  we  pass, 
Along  the  simple  grass  ? 

Stirs  not  some  intimate  foot  as  we  draw  nigh  ? 
Or  is  To-Day  grown  but  a  lantern  light, 
That  throws  at  the  dark's  edge, 
Upon  some  village  hedge, 
A  petty  red,  then  dwindles  into  night  ? 

The  House  decays,  but  in  the  April  rain, 

Long  after,  where  it  stood, 

Betwixt  the  sea  and  wood, 

Purple  as  yore,  its  violets  remain. 

Long  after,  hoarded  in  the  ancestral  town, 

The  new  folk  find  it  there, 

In  carved  shelf  or  chair, 

Or  candlesticks  whose  gilt  is  turning  brown. 

Thus  is  it  with  our  Pasts  ;  they  go  ;  they  stay  ; 

They  go,  yet  leave  behind, 

Some  wealth,  dear,  starry,  kind, 

For  common  folk  to  gather  day  by  day : 


There  is  no  moment  which  dies  unforgot ; 

For  when  the  last  is  flown, 

The  very  churls  do  own, 

More  wars  than  Troy,  more  towers  than  Camelot. 

Yet  not  alone  the  vanished  years  are  fair ; 

There  are  two  spirits  keep, 

Where  men  do  work  or  sleep, 

Down  rutty  lane,  or  in  the  roof -girt  square; 

Their  looks  are  gentle,  for  they  come  to  bless ; 

With  brooding  eyes  they  see, 

The  Best  for  you  and  me ; 

And  one  is  Awe  and  one  is  Loveliness. 

From  wonder  unto  wonder  do  we  go  ; 

Faiths,  fervors,  quests,  desires, 

Youth's  brief  entrancing  fires, 

The  deeper  moods  of  deeper  years  we  know  ; 

We  need  but  lift  our  bare,  expectant  hands ; 

The  mists  break  and  are  gone ; 

Sounds,  scents,  visions  of  dawn 

Surge  toward  us  from  the  old,  unalien  lands. 

The  wonder  of  this  life  that  hurries  by  I  — 

Loves,  wrecks,  deceits,  and  woes, 

Pomps,  marketings  and  shows, 

So  close  to  earth,  yet  closer  to  the  sky. 

This  you  and  I  —  forgetting  and  forgot ; 

Yet  shall  we  plan,  dream,  slay, 

Or,  sudden  on  a  day, 

Grasp  at  the  wheeling  suns  and  perish  not. 


This  mystery  forever  at  the  door !  — 

Familiar  as  the  air, 

And  sacred  as  a  prayer, 

Forever  new  and  yet  forever  hoar  — 

This  you  and  I  —  blown  past  the  village  pane, 

And  down  to  darkness  thrust, 

A  little  simple  dust, 

That  still  shall  rise  and  serve  its  God  again. 

What  go  into  the  making  of  a  song  ? 

A  thousand  years  agone, 

And  more  that  are  to  dawn, 

And  this  one  moment  pulsing  strange  and  strong ; 

And  every  moment,  be  it  near  or  far, 

Joy-lit,  or  drab  with  woe, 

And  every  great  and  low, 

The  rose,  the  worm,  the  tempest,  and  the  star. 

The  cry  of  Sorrow  gathering  her  sheaves ; 

The  laughter  full  and  low, 

Of  the  rude  folk  that  sow, 

A  windy  hour  under  thin  country  eaves ; 

The  shout  of  Singers  marching  in  their  might, 

To  viol  and  to  horn, 

Far  up  the  steeps  of  morn, 

To  the  white  levels  of  perpetual  light. 

First  love,  that  in  the  young  days  has  us  thrall ; 

The  festival ;  the  flower  ; 

The  wet,  autumnal  hour ; 

The  last  fight  waging  by  the  broken  wall  — 


These,  these  and  more.     For  hark  !  all  wrong,  all  right ; 

The  fear  that  drove  men  back, 

The  dream  along  the  track, 

The  foot  that  slipped,  the  heart  that  took  the  height ! 

Oh,  wonder  of  a  song !  Along  it  pour 

A  thousand  years  to  be, 

The  fair,  the  rude,  the  free, 

Like  wind  adown  the  hollow  of  a  shore : 

Out  of  their  heart  shall  come  a  kindlier  Plan  ; 

Out  of  our  fathers'  creeds, 

A  better  for  our  needs, 

Out  of  the  ancestral  throng  a  nobler  Man. 

Oh,  life  !  oh,  song !  Oh,  the  long  awe  of  spring ! 

A  little  shines  the  light ; 

Then  lo,  to  left,  to  right, 

Across  the  garden  flags  some  baffling  thing !  — 

See  the  round  scarlet  leap  from  April  clod  : 

Empty  we  turn  away, 

Dared  by  that  bit  of  clay ; 

For  tulips  still  are  tulips,  God  still  God. 

Some  ancient  sense  of  Beauty  haunts  us  still ; 

The  pangs  of  Life  and  Art, 

Lie  sharp  about  the  heart ; 

Sudden  we  feel  the  unescapable  thrill : 

One  instant  naught  —  the  next,  a  pageant  nigh ! 

Out  in  the  naked  street, 

The  sound  of  lonely  feet ; 

In  ordered  splendor  all  our  dreams  march  by. 


A  book  can  hold  us,  or  a  snatch  of  sea, 

Or  lilies  by  a  wall ; 

A  comrade  at  dewfall, 

Can  from  his  violin  such  chords  set  free, 

To  such  quick,  searching  notes  give  instant  tongue, 

To  woods,  darks,  sailing  ships ; 

The  sobs  start  to  our  lips  — 

How  long,  how  long  it  is  since  we  were  young ! 

He  plays.     Under  the  clear  and  ruddy  sky, 

And  there  in  the  dewfall, 

The  oldest  things  of  all, 

Go  gleaming  past,  and  as  they  go,  they  cry  — 

Love,  Longing,  Tears,  and  gray  Remembering ; 

A  foot,  a  voice,  a  face  !  — 

And  there,  in  some  dim  place, 

The  little  honey-colored  flowers  of  spring. 

To  every  age  some  mystery  all  its  own, 

That  makes  its  dullest  air, 

A  something  hushed  and  fair ; 

Down  every  age  some  breath  of  Beauty  blown  ; 

Each  day  is  but  a  pool  within  the  grass, 

A  haunted,  gusty  thing, 

Of  ancient  fashioning, 

Where  earth  and  heaven  do  meet  as  in  a  glass. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  THE  SILENT  YEARS 


T 


HE  Silent  House  it  standeth  wide, — . 

Yea,  open  is  the  door ; 
The  winds  of  Peace  from  every  side 
Blow  round  it  evermore. 


Unhewn  of  axe,  unmade  of  hands, 
Its  walls  so  broad  and  still ; 
Like  to  a  sea  the  pale  gray  lands 
Flow  up  to  the  gray  sill. 

Candle  were  vain,  and  sun  but  dim, 
For  here  the  dark  doth  cease ; 
Nor  drink  nor  meat  is  spread  for  him 
Who  suppeth  here  with  Peace. 

Arrows  speed  not,  nor  hurtling  spear, 
Nor  plague  cometh  to  slay ; 
Viol  and  rebec  make  no  cheer, 
For  Song  hath  had  his  day. 

Grief  shattereth  here  his  weary  cup ; 
No  watch  the  hours  do  keep 
That  they  may  call  the  red  East  up, 
Or  soothe  the  West  to  sleep. 

Fashions,  desires,  dreams,  swarming  fears, 
Fade  past  the  threshold  gray ; 
One  day  is  as  a  thousand  years, 
A  thousand  years  one  day. 


8 


HERBS 

A    SERVICEABLE  thing 
JT\     Is  fennel,  mint,  or  balm, 
Kept  in  the  thrifty  calm 
Of  hollows,  in  the  spring ; 
Or  by  old  houses  pent. 
Dear  is  its  ancient  scent 
To  folk  that  love  the  days  forgot, 
Nor  think  that  God  is  not. 

Sage,  lavender,  and  rue, 

For  body's  hurt  and  ill, 

For  fever  and  for  chill ; 

Rosemary,  strange  with  dew, 

For  sorrow  and  its  smart, 

For  breaking  of  the  heart. 

Yet  pain,  dearth,  tears,  all  come  to  dust, 

As  even  the  herbs  must. 

Life-everlasting,  too, 
Windless,  poignant,  and  sere, 
That  blows  in  the  old  year, 
Townsmen,  for  me  and  you. 
Why  fret  for  wafting  airs  ? 
Why  haste  to  sell  our  wares  ? 
Captains  and  clerks,  this  shall  befall ; 
This  is  the  end  of  all. 

Oh,  this  the  end  indeed ! 
Oh,  unforgotten  things, 


Gone  out  of  all  the  springs ; 
The  quest,  the  dream,  the  creed ! 
Gone  out  of  all  the  lands, 
And  yet  safe  in  God's  hands ;  — 
For  shall  the  dull  herbs  live  again, 
And  not  the  sons  of  men  ? 


10 


SPICEWOOD 

THE  spicewood  burns  along  the  gray,  spent  sky, 
In  moist,  unchimneyed  places,  in  a  wind, 
That  whips  it  all  before,  and  all  behind, 
Into  one  thick,  rude  flame,  now  low,  now  high. 
It  is  the  first,  the  homeliest  thing  of  all  — 
At  sight  of  it,  the  lad  that  by  it  fares, 
Whistles  afresh  his  foolish  town-caught  airs  — 
A  thing  so  honey-colored  and  so  tall ! 
It  is  as  though  the  young  Year,  ere  he  pass, 
To  the  white  riot  of  the  cherry  tree, 
Would  fain  accustom  us,  or  here,  or  there, 
To  his  new  sudden  ways  with  bough  and  grass, 
So  starts  with  what  is  humble,  plain  to  see, 
And  all  familiar  as  a  cup,  a  chair. 


ii 


T 


THE  COOL  OF  EVENING 

HE  wind  is  low  in  air, 

And  shakes  the  box-tree  bare 
Of  spice,  long  hoarded  there  ; 
Cut  black  against  the  orange  sky, 
Two  neighbors  hurry  by. 


The  door  's  ajar.     I  see 
The  table  set  for  me, 
My  mother  in  her  chair 
Ready  to  say  the  prayer. 

In  journeyings  to  and  fro 
Our  poor  wild  lives  do  go  — 
Then  wind,  scent,  flare  of  sky, 
The  cool  of  evening  nigh ; 
Roof,  loaf,  the  fond  word  said 
Then  afterward  to  bed. 


12 


BY  THE  RIVER 

("  Vengeance  of  Jenny' s  case!  Fie  on  her!  Never  name 
her,  child/'')  MRS.  QUICKLY 

DAY-LONG  the  market  wains, 
In  faded  rows  creak  out  the  lanes, 
And  past  that  house  she  knew ; 
Blue,  scarlet  flowers  without  stint, 
Crowd  the  thin  yard.     The  tang  of  mint, 
Clings  to  one's  skirts  the  whole  day  through. 

The  villagers  here  and  there 
Remember  yet  that  she  was  fair ; 
Sudden,  in  April's  chill, 
Her  mother  hears  her  step  about, 
And  turns,  and  lo,  the  lilacs  out, 
But  all  the  house  grown  dully  still ! 

A  child's  mug,  prinked  with  gold, 

A  ribbon  with  its  rose  turned  old, 

Gray  hymns,  wrapped  all  in  lawn  — 

She  keeps  them  there  in  cupboard  fast, 

And  wonders  dimly  o'er  the  last, 

How  she  who  sang  them,  could  have  gone. 

Her  father,  his  work  done, 

And  sheds  made  fast  at  set  of  sun, 

Dumb  in  the  household  stir, 

Looks  past  his  proper  daughters  there, 

'3 


Where  sits  his  wife,  dumb  in  her  chair, 
And  knows  they  both  think  but  of  her. 

The  youngest  of  the  girls, 
Shy-bosomed  thing  of  combs  and  curls, 
Shaken  dimly  to  and  fro, 
Stares  in  her  glass,  as  if  that  she, 
That  fair  face  in  her  own  might  see, 
That  star  which  set  so  long  ago. 

And  thus  the  days  have  gone, 

And  thus  shall  go  from  dawn  to  dawn  — 

This  water  lapping  by, 

Black  wharf,  sad  town,  they  shall  not  know, 

Or  this  stark  woman  drifting  slow  — 

Who  might  be  you,  who  might  be  I. 


THE  DUST 

THE  dust  blows  up  and  down 
Within  the  lonely  town  ; 
Vague,  hurrying,  dumb,  aloof, 
On  sill  and  bough  and  roof. 

What  cloudy  shapes  do  fleet 
Along  the  parched  street ; 
Clerks,  bishops,  kings  go  by  — 
To-morrow  so  shall  I ! 


TEARS 

WHEN  I  consider  Life  and  its  few  years  — 
A  wisp  of  fog  betwixt  us  and  the  sun  ; 
A  call  to  battle,  and  the  battle  done 
Ere  the  last  echo  dies  within  our  ears ; 
A  rose  choked  in  the  grass ;  an  hour  of  fears ; 
The  gusts  that  past  a  darkening  shore  do  beat ; 
The  burst  of  music  down  an  unlistening  street  — 
I  wonder  at  the  idleness  of  tears. 
Ye  old,  old  dead,  and  ye  of  yesternight, 
Chieftains,  and  bards,  and  keepers  of  the  sheep, 
By  every  cup  of  sorrow  that  you  had, 
Loose  me  from  tears,  and  make  me  see  aright 
How  each  hath  back  what  once  he  stayed  to  weep ; 
Homer  his  sight,  David  his  little  lad ! 


16 


THE  GHOSTLY  MAYERS 

OH,  who  will  take  the  road  with  me  at  breaking  of  the  day ! 
The  road  with  me,  the  road  with  me  this  morning  of  the  May  ! 
This  morning  of  the  May  indeed  when  scarlet  burns  the  pane, 
And  cherry  bloom  drops  in  the  wind  a  mile  along  the  lane. 

Scarce  do  I  call  but  they  are  come  as  hurrying  as  the  wind ; 
Scarce  do  I  call  but  fleet  of  foot  they  come  full  soft  behind  ; 
Oho,  the  ancient  Maying  folk,  the  Mayers  high  and  low, 
That  all  betwixt  the  rocking  white,  the  dropping  white  do  go  ! 

A  shadowy  folk  with  reed  at  lip  they  take  the  swaying  grass  ; 
And  they  do  have  the  scarlet  pane  for  candle  as  they  pass ; 
Now  piping  loud,  now  piping  low,  all  cloudy  in  the  light, 
They  take  the  swaying  grass  betwixt  the  rocking,  dropping  white. 

One  smacks  of  Essex,  one  of  Kent;  one  smacks  of  Warwick's  town, 
And  when  he  blows  what  can  they  do  but  hush  them  up  and  down  ; 
And  one  has  naught  to  tell  him  by  save  a  long  daffodil, 
He  plucked  a  many  a  year  agone  upon  a  Devon  hill. 

The  village  folk  they  do  not  know,  at  breaking  of  the  day, 
As  down  their  simple  lanes  I  go,  this  morning  of  the  May, 
What  Presences  fare  on  behind  betwixt  the  trees  so  tall, 
The  rocking  white,  the  dropping  white,  a  mile  along  the  wall. 


LYDIA  IS  GONE  THIS  MANY  A  YEAR 

LYDIA  is  gone  this  many  a  year, 
Yet  when  the  lilacs  stir, 
In  the  old  gardens  far  or  near, 
The  house  is  full  of  her. 

They  climb  the  twisted  chamber  stair ; 

Her  picture  haunts  the  room  ; 
On  the  carved  shelf  beneath  it  there, 

They  heap  the  purple  bloom. 

A  ghost  so  long  has  Lydia  been, 

Her  cloak  upon  the  wall, 
Broidered,  and  gilt,  and  faded  green, 

Seems  not  her  cloak  at  all. 

The  book,  the  box  on  mantel  laid, 

The  shells  in  a  pale  row, 
Are  those  of  some  dim  little  maid, 

A  thousand  years  ago. 

And  yet  the  house  is  full  of  her ; 

She  goes  and  comes  again  ; 
And  longings  thrill,  and  memories  stir, 

Like  lilacs  in  the  rain. 

Out  in  their  yards  the  neighbors  walk, 

Among  the  blossoms  tall ; 
Of  Anne,  of  Phyllis,  do  they  talk, 

Of  Lydia  not  at  all. 


18 


WRIT  IN  A  BOOK  OF  WELSH  VERSE 


T 


HIS  is  the  house  where  I  was  bred : 

The  wind  blows  through  it  without  stint, 
The  wind  bitten  by  the  roadside  mint ; 
Here  brake  I  loaf,  here  climbed  to  bed. 


The  fuchsia  on  the  window  sill ; 
Even  the  candlesticks  a-row, 
Wrought  by  grave  men  so  long  ago  — 
I  loved  them  once,  I  love  them  still. 

Southward  and  westward  a  great  sky ! 
The  throb  of  sea  within  mine  ear  — 
Then  something  different,  more  near, 
As  though  a  wistful  foot  went  by. 

Ghost  of  a  ghost  down  all  the  years  !  - 
In  low-roofed  room,  at  turn  of  stair, 
At  table-setting,  and  at  prayer, 
Old  wars,  old  hungers,  and  old  tears  ! 


TO  ART 

WHAT  are  thine  ends  ?     To  idle  at  the  door, 
The  while  the  wharves  call  and  the  ships  go  by ; 
Set  sail  and  drift  under  an  April  sky, 
A  curious  mariner  from  shore  to  shore  ? 
To  strip  from  woodland  pool  the  pipe  of  yore, 
Bursting  with  many  a  high,  sweet,  ancient  air, 
And  shrilling  down  the  country  highways  fare  ?  — 
Son  of  the  gods,  and  hast  thou  nothing  more ! 
Storm  through  the  tides,  unheeding  wreck  or  night, 
Lord  of  the  chart,  the  track,  lord  of  thy  fears, 
Fling  to  the  gust  the  reed  of  weathers  slight ; 
Blood  of  our  blood,  and  kin  to  all  our  tears, 
Cry  through  the  dark,  and  drive  the  world  to  light ; 
Strike  at  the  heart  of  time,  and  rouse  the  years. 


20 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  OLD  HOUSE 

OMEback! 

My  little  lads,  come  back ! 
My  little  maids,  with  starched  frocks ; 
My  lads,  my  maids,  come  back ! 
The  poplar  trees  are  black 
Against  the  keen,  lone,  throbbing  sky ; 
The  tang  of  the  old  box 
Fills  the  clear  dusk  from  wall  to  wall, 
And  the  dews  fall. 
I  watch,  I  cry : 

Leave  the  rude  wharf,  the  mart ; 
Come  back ! 
Else  shall  I  break  my  heart. 

Am  I  forgot ; 

My  days  as  they  were  not  ?  — 

The  warm,  sweet,  crooning  tunes  ; 

The  Sunday  afternoons, 

Wrought  but  for  you ; 

The  larkspurs  growing  tall, 

You  wreathed  in  pink  and  blue, 

Within  your  prayer-books  small ; 

The  cupboards  carved  both  in  and  out, 

With  curious,  prickly  vine, 

And  smelling  far  and  fine  ; 

The  pictures  in  a  row, 

Of  folk  you  did  not  know ; 

The  toys,  the  games,  the  shrill,  gay  rout ; 

21 


The  lanterns,  that  at  hour  for  bed, 

A  charmed,  but  homely  red 

Went  flickering  from  shed  to  shed  ; 

The  fagots  crumbling,  spicy,  good, 

Brought  in  from  the  great  wood ; 

The  Dark  that  held  you  all  about ; 

The  grave,  white  Shapes  blown  to  and  fro, 

The  Wind  that  would  not  go  ?  — 

Come  back,  my  women  and  my  men, 

And  take  them  all  again  ! 

Not  yet,  not  yet, 

Can  you  forget  — 

For  you  that  are  a  man, 

You  battle  not  or  reap,  you  dream  nor  plan  ; 

And  you,  so  gray  of  look, 

You  cannot  pluck  a  rose,  or  read  a  book, 

Do  aught  for  faith,  or  fame,  or  tears, 

But  I  am  there  with  all  my  years. 

Oh,  one  and  all, 

When  at  the  evenfall, 

Your  slim  girls  sing  out  on  the  stair, 

Lo,  I  am  there  ! 

When  blow  the  cherry  boughs  so  fair 

Athwart  your  slender  town  yards  far  away, 

Lo,  all  at  once  you  have  no  word  to  say ; 

For  at  your  throat  a  sharp,  strange  thing  — 

An  old  house  set  in  an  old  spring ! 

Come  back  1 

Come  up  the  still  and  wistful  lands, 

22 


The  poplar-haunted  lands. 

You  need  not  call, 

For  I  shall  know, 

And  light  the  candles  tall, 

Set  wine  and  loaf  a-row. 

Come  back  ! 

Unlatch  the  door, 

And  fall  upon  my  heart  once  more. 

For  I  shall  comfort  you,  oh,  lad ; 

Oh,  daughter,  I  shall  make  you  wholly  glad ! 

The  wreck,  the  wrong, 

The  unavailing  throng, 

The  sting,  the  smart, 

Shall  be  as  they  were  not, 

Forgot,  forgot ! 

Come  back, 

And  fall  upon  my  heart ! 


TAPS 

SLEEP. 
Now  that  the  charge  is  won, 
Sleep  in  the  narrow  clod ; 
Now  it  is  set  of  sun, 
Sleep  till  the  trump  of  God. 
Sleep. 

Sleep. 

Fame  is  a  bugle  call 

Blown  past  a  crumbling  wall ; 

Battles  are  clean  forgot ; 

Captains  and  towns  are  not : 

Sleep  shall  outlast  them  all. 

Sleep. 


24 


F 


IN  PRAISE  OF  COMMON  THINGS 
OR  stock  and  stone  : 


For  grass,  and  pool ;  for  quince  tree  blown 
A  virginal  white  in  spring ; 
And  for  the  wall  beside, 
Gray,  gentle,  wide ; 
For  roof,  loaf,  everything, 
I  praise  Thee,  Lord; 
For  toil,  and  ache,  and  strife, 
And  all  the  commonness  of  life. 


Hearty,  yet  dim, 

Like  country  voices  in  a  hymn, 

The  things  a  house  can  hold ; 

The  memories  in  the  air ; 

And  down  the  stair 

Fond  footsteps  known  of  old  ; 

The  chair,  the  book  or  two ; 

The  little  bowl  of  white  and  blue. 

What  would  it  be, 

If  loveliness  were  far  from  me  ? 

A  staff  I  could  not  take, 

To  hurry  up  and  down, 

From  field  to  town  ; 

Needs  would  my  wild  heart  break ; 

Or,  I  would  vacant  go, 

And,  being  naught,  to  nothing  grow. 


This  is  the  best : 

My  little  road  from  east  to  west, 

The  breadth  of  a  man's  hand, 

Not  from  the  sky  too  far, 

Nor  any  star, 

Runs  through  the  unwalled  land ; 

From  common  things  that  be, 

Is  it  but  a  step  to  run  to  Thee. 


26 


OH  GRAY  AND  TENDER  IS  THE  RAIN 

OH,  gray  and  tender  is  the  rain, 
That  drips,  drips  on  the  pane ! 
A  hundred  things  come  in  the  door, 
The  scent  of  herbs,  the  thought  of  yore. 

I  see  the  pool  out  in  the  grass, 

A  bit  of  broken  glass  ; 

The  red  flags  running  wet  and  straight, 

Down  to  the  little  flapping  gate. 

Lombardy  poplars  tall  and  three, 
Across  the  road  I  see ; 
There  is  no  loveliness  so  plain 
As  a  tall  poplar  in  the  rain. 

But  oh,  the  hundred  things  and  more, 
That  come  in  at  the  door !  — 
The  smack  of  mint,  old  joy,  old  pain, 
Caught  in  the  gray  and  tender  rain. 


27 


AFTER 

H,  the  littles  that  remain  ! 

Scent  of  mint  out  in  the  lane ; 
Flare  of  window  ;  sound  of  bees  ;  — 
These,  but  these. 


o 


Three  times  sitting  down  to  bread ; 

One  time  climbing  up  to  bed ; 

Table-setting  o'er  and  o'er ; 

Drying  herbs  for  winter's  store ; 

This  thing ;  that  thing ;  —  nothing  more. 

But  just  now  out  in  the  lane, 
Oh,  the  scent  of  mint  was  plain  1 


28 


THE  VALENTINE 

AGAINST  this  thorny  Present  shows 
Your  memory  like  the  dew ; 
Each  maid  a  wrinkled  Beauty  goes, 
When  I  do  think  of  you. 

Folded  away  in  the  deep  grass, 

What  is  it  can  befall  ? 
Nor  Clouds  that  fade,  nor  Gusts  that  pass, 

Nor  any  Grief  at  all. 

Now  lovers  write  their  verses  brave ; 

Now  buds  start  on  the  tree ; 
But  Love  went  with  you  to  the  grave, 

The  sere  leaf  bides  with  me. 

I  have  not  any  word  save  this ; 

My  tears  are  all  my  store ; 
The  fairer  that  the  weather  is 

I  miss  you  but  the  more. 


29 


WITCH  HAZEL 

GRAY  sky ;  gray  lane  ; 
A  flaw  of  rain ; 
Loud  crows  midway  in  air, 
That  go,  and  leave  it  bare. 

But  whence, 

By  the  torn  fence, 

This  hushed  thing  with  shape  of  flame  ? 

And  whither  came, 

This  yellow  gust  blown  down  the  grass 

Of  Hallowmas  ? 

Holds  the  old  Year,  remembering, 

A  moment  of  last  spring  ? 

Or,  far  beyond  this  weather  vext, 

A  moment  of  the  next  ? 

Holds  he  the  twain  in  one, 

The  April  gone,  the  April  not  begun  ?  — 

In  these  dim  stalks,  wind-lapped  and  bright, 

Driven  all  one  way  like  candlelight  ? 


THE  LARK 

(SALISBURY,  ENGLAND) 

A  CLOSE  gray  sky, 
And  poplars  gray  and  high, 
The  country-side  along ; 
The  steeple  bold 
Across  the  acres  old  — 
And  then  a  song  ! 

Oh,  far,  far,  far, 

As  any  spire  or  star, 

Beyond  the  cloistered  wall ! 
Oh,  high,  high,  high, 
A  heart-throb  in  the  sky  — 

Then  not  at  all ! 


T 


A  CHRISTMAS  FOLK-SONG 

HE  little  Jesus  came  to  town  ; 

The  wind  blew  up,  the  wind  blew  down ; 
Out  in  the  street  the  wind  was  bold ; 
Now  who  would  house  Him  from  the  cold  ? 


Then  opened 'wide  a  stable  door, 

Fair  were  the  rushes  on  the  floor  ; 

The  Ox  put  forth  a  horned  head : 

"  Come,  little  Lord,  here  make  Thy  bed." 

Uprose  the  Sheep  were  folded  near : 
"Thou  Lamb  of  God,  come,  enter  here." 
He  entered  there  to  rush  and  reed, 
Who  was  the  Lamb  of  God  indeed. 

The  little  Jesus  came  to  town  ; 
With  ox  and  sheep  He  laid  Him  down  ; 
Peace  to  the  byre,  peace  to  the  fold, 
For  that  they  housed  Him  from  the  cold  ! 


BIBLE  STORIES 

THE  room  was  low  and  small  and  kind  ; 
And  in  its  cupboard  old, 
The  shells  were  set  out  to  my  mind ; 
The  cups  I  loved  with  rims  of  gold. 

Then,  with  that  good  gift  which  she  had, 

My  mother  showed  at  will, 
David,  the  ruddy  Syrian  lad, 

With  his  few  sheep  upon  a  hill ; 

A  shop  down  a  rude  country  street, 
The  chips  strewn  on  the  floor, 

And  faintly  keen  across  the  heat ; 
The  simple  kinsfolk  at  the  door ; 

Mary  amid  the  homely  din, 

As  slim  as  violet ; 
The  little  Jesus  just  within, 

About  His  father's  business  set. 

My  mother  rose,  and  then  I  knew 

As  she  stood  smiling  there, 
Her  gown  was  of  that  gentle  blue 

Which  she  had  made  the  Virgin  wear. 

How  far  the  very  chairs  were  grown ! 

The  gilt  rose  on  each  back, 
Into  a  Syrian  rose  was  blown, 

And  not  our  humble  gold  and  black. 

33 


That  week  long,  in  our  acres  old, 

Lad  David  did  I  see  ; 
From  out  our  cups  with  rims  of  gold, 

The  little  Jesus  supped  with  me. 


34 


SPINNING  TOPS 

ALL  day,  all  day,  the  village  lads  are  out  — 
It  is  so  pleasant  and  so  clear  a  weather  — 
And  my  lad,  too,  is  somewhere  thereabout ; 
For  as  of  old  they  spin  their  tops  together. 
Out  past  the  ivied  fences  do  they  crowd ; 
I  hear  their  shouts,  now  one,  and  now  another ; 
But  his  above  them  all,  so  sweetly  loud ; 
They  hear  it  not  —  but  I,  I  am  his  mother. 
A  cloudy  thing,  I  see  him  in  the  sun, 
That  little  lad,  so  long  and  long  forgot, 
By  other  lads  in  this  and  any  weather : 
And  still  he  keeps  his  playtimes  one  by  one ; 
And  still,  although  his  neighbors  know  it  not, 
Day-long,  week-long,  they  spin  their  tops  together. 


35 


THE  MYSTERY 

AS  up  and  down  the  world  I  go, 
All  ancient  do  the  places  show  ; 
The  gardens  full  of  honey  bees, 
The  roofs,  the  high  and  windy  trees. 

April  begins.     The  half-grown  pear, 
Out  in  the  lane  buds  white  and  fair ; 
Long  since  —  for  I  can  see  it  plain  — 
It  blossomed  in  just  such  a  lane. 

This  tender  light  upon  the  glass, 
Long  since  I  saw  across  the  grass, 
Perhaps  in  Rouen,  perhaps  in  Rome  ; 
Where'er  —  I  know  that  it  was  home. 


GOOD  FRIDAY 

P)ETER  and  James  and  John, 
1         The  sad  tale  runneth  on  — 

All  slept  and  Thee  forgot ; 

One  said  he  knew  Thee  not. 

Peter  and  James  and  John, 
The  sad  tale  runneth  on  — 
I  am  that  one,  the  three ; 
Thus  have  I  done  to  Thee. 

Under  a  garden  wall, 

I  lay  at  evenfall ; 

I  waked.     Thou  calledst  me  ; 

I  had  not  watched  with  Thee. 

Peter  and  James  and  John, 
The  sad  tale  runneth  on  — 
By  the  priest's  fagot  hot, 
I  said  I  knew  Thee  not. 

The  little  maid  spake  out : 
"  With  Him  thou  wentest  about.' 
"This  Man  I  never  met  —  " 
I  hear  the  cock  crow  yet. 


37 


THE  CHERRY  BOUGHS 

OH,  now  the  heavenly  cherry  boughs, 
That  are  so  good  to  know ! 
Oh,  now  the  haunting  cherry  boughs, 
Straight  up  to  God  they  go ! 

And  now  that  stilly  foot  I  hear, 
A-following  through  the  trees  ; 

And  in  the  stopping  of  the  wind, 
The  little,  wrangling  bees. 

The  world  is  but  a  gray,  gray  dust, 
Beaten  past  me  small  and  thin  : 

And  life  this  space  blown  clear  of  all 
Except  the  Once  Has  Been. 

Under  the  cherry  boughs  it  stands 

So  stilly  and  so  kind ; 
And  I  can  hear  it  following 

In  the  stopping  of  the  wind. 


WILD  GEESE 

r~F*HE  sun  blown  out ; 
1       The  dusk  about : 
Fence,  roof,  tree  —  here  or  there, 
Wedged  fast  in  the  drab  air ; 
A  pool  vacant  with  sky, 
That  stares  up  like  an  eye. 

Nothing  can  happen.     All  is  done  — 

The  quest  to  fare, 

The  race  to  run  — 

The  house  sodden  with  years, 

And  bare 

Even  of  tears. 

A  cry ! 

From  out  the  hostelries  of  sky, 
And  down  the  gray  wind  blown  ; 
Rude,  innocent,  alone. 

Now,  in  the  west,  long  sere, 

An  orange  thread,  the  length  of  spear ; 

It  glows ; 

It  grows ; 

The  flagons  of  the  air 

Drip  color  everywhere  : 

The  village  —  fence,  roof,  tree  — 

From  the  lapsed  dusk  pulls  free, 

And  shows 


39 


A  rich,  still,  unforgotten  place ; 

Each  window  square, 

Yellow  for  yellow  renders  back; 

The  pool  puts  off  its  foolish  face  ; 

The  wagon  track 

Crooks  past  lank  garden-plot, 

To  Rome,  to  Camelot. 

A  cry! 


40 


THE  UNFORGOTTEN  THINGS 

WHAT  are  the  unforgotten  things,  my  heart  ? 
In  what  guise  do  they  come,  in  what  strange  way 
Knock  at  tire  door,  and  enter  in  and  stay, 
Of  our  small  hour  the  near,  the  poignant  part  ?  — 
A  sound,  an  odor,  trick  of  sun  and  air ; 
Left  from  a  song  the  little,  sobbing  note ; 
The  yellow  of  a  flower  quick  at  the  throat  — 
Of  all  our  years,  of  all  our  tears  a  share. 
No  need  for  quest  —  they  are  forever  nigh  ; 
Out  of  the  night,  out  of  the  noon  they  start ; 
Their  steps  do  follow,  follow  through  the  grass ; 
Their  hands  touch  ours,  and  eye  looks  into  eye ; 
Outlasting  years  and  tears,  my  heart,  my  heart  I  — 
Broken  into  dust  their  ancient  lovers  pass. 


THE  SHADOW  ON  THE  DIAL 

GOD  set  the  sun  in  the  sky ; 
Out  of  the  sun  came  I ; 
A  shadow,  yet  I  show 
How  long  it  takes  a  rose  to  grow. 


42 


THE  WAYFARER 

'HTHERE  is  but  little  that  I  know, 
A  wayjarer  blown  to  and  fro  ; 
Spheres,  empires,  gods  go  down  the  wind 
But  these  are  what  they  leave  behind  — 

The  common  toils,  the  village  mirth ; 
The  fagot  crackling  on  the  hearth ; 
The  wind,  the  sun,  the  frost,  the  dew ; 
The  roadside  grass  with  flower  of  blue. 

There  is  but  little  that  I  knovu, 

A  wayfarer  blown  to  and  fro  ; 

Beauty  is  not  kept  on  a  shelf, 

For  grudging  dole  ;  God  gives  Himself. 

Without  the  village  fences  pent, 
Such  purple  and  such  pink  are  spent, 
That  we  should  pray  to  be  indeed, 
Humble  and  lovely  as  a  weed. 

Life  is  but  a  small  rainy  day 
Betwixt  two  dusks  ;  but  in  its  gray 
Enough  of  light  for  me,  for  you 
Our  something  or  our  naught  to  do. 

There  is  but  little  that  I  know, 
A  wayfarer  blown  to  and  fro; 
Now  this  the  sum  of  our  deserts : 
We  sow  our  healings  and  our  hurts. 

43 


And  ever  is  there  chance  to  run 
A  somewhat  nearer  to  the  sun ; 
Out  of  our  very  shames  to  press 
Unto  the  skirts  of  righteousness. 

Life  ends.     For  us  and  all  our  kind, 
Enough  of  light  a  roof  to  find  ; 
And  after,  long  and  long  to  see, 
That  Love  has  never  let  us  be. 


THE  PLOWMAN 

THE  delicate  gray  trees  stand  up 
There  by  the  fenced  ways ; 
One  or  two  are  crimson-tipped, 
And  soon  will  start  to  blaze. 


The  plowman  follows,  as  of  yore, 

Along  the  furrows  cold, 
Homeric  shape  against  the  boughs ; 

Sharp  is  the  air  with  mold. 

The  sweating  horses  heave  and  strain; 

The  crows  with  thick,  high  note 
Break  black  across  the  windless  land, 

Fade  off  and  are  remote. 

Oh,  new  days,  yet  long  known  and  old ! 

Lo,  as  we  look  about, 
This  immemorial  act  of  faith, 

That  takes  the  heart  from  doubt ! 

Kingdoms  decay  and  creeds  are  not, 

Yet  still  the  plowman  goes 
Down  the  spring  fields,  so  he  may  make 

Ready  for  him  that  sows. 


45 


SASSAFRAS 

OH,  here's,  oh,  here's  your  sassafras  !  — 
Across  the  stall,  (  as  I  did  pass  ), — 
Lo,  in  small  bundles  red  and  lone, 
The  savory  woodland  stuff  was  shown ! 
Here  's  sassafras  ! 

Here  country  memories  to  buy ! 

Here  Tyre  and  Nineveh  and  Rome ; 
And  youth,  spice-laden,  going  by 
When  the  round  sun  is  low  in  sky, 

And  home,  home  1 

I  had  not  thought  it  long  ago, 

Since  we  came  home  across  the  grass 
But  just  a  yesterday  or  so  — 
Till  that  call  shook  me  to  and  fro  ; 

Here  *s  sassafras  ! 


46 


THE  FOLD 

A  BARE,  crooked  wisp,  that  the  thin  hollows  hold, 
A  mile  past  village  chimneys,  does  it  stand, 
Wind-bitten  in  the  alway  windy  land ; 
Bare,  crooked,  bitten  by  the  wind  —  and  yet  a  fold  - 
And  there  the  shepherd,  at  the  wane  of  light, 
Drives  all  his  master's  sheep ;  aye,  in  the  hour, 
When  that  the  sky  is  like  a  crocus  flower, 
And  folk  do  make  them  ready  for  the  night. 
So  gentle  is  he  with  each  little  one, 
And  with  the  old,  so  careful  and  so  slow  — 
They  are  withal  so  safe  where  they  do  keep  — 
What  better  than  to  find,  at  set  of  sun, 
A  shepherd,  a  walled  space  where  I  could  go, 
And  house  me  from  the  wind  like  any  sheep  ? 


47 


T 


THE  YOUNG  MOTHER 

HE  Host  lifts  high  the  candlelight  — 
"  Out  in  the  dark  who  waits  before  ? 
Now  who  is  this  at  mid  of  night, 
Comes  faring  to  my  door  ?  " 


With  rushes  is  the  chamber  set ; 

The  house  is  sweet  without,  within  ; 
For  it  may  be  she  will  forget 

The  place  where  she  hath  been. 

But  lonely,  lonely  in  the  room, 

With  strange  eyes  looks  she  all  about ; 
She  sees  the  broken  boughs  in  bloom, 

The  red  wine  poured  out. 

They  crowd  around  her  where  she  stands, 
The  children  and  the  elders  there ; 

They  put  the  cup  within  her  hands ; 
They  break  the  loaf  so  fair. 

Oh,  what  to  her  that  they  are  kind  1 
Oh,  let  the  tears  come  like  a  tide ! 

She  cannot  keep  from  out  her  mind 
The  son  for  whom  she  died ! 


48 


HOMESICK 

(ON  A  RAINY  DAY) 

OH,  tell  me  not  of  any  mirth ; 
I  know  them  all  by  heart  — 
Fond  laughter  wavering  by  the  hearth, 
Shrill  songs  of  field  and  cart. 

Oh,  tell  me  not  of  any  grief, 

For  I  do  know  them  all  — 
Slim,  empty  chambers,  wane  of  leaf, 

And  tears,  tears  that  befall. 

Oh,  tell  me  not  of  beauty's  glass, 
I  know  it  through  and  through ; 

Old  loves,  each  flower  within  the  grass, 
Is  fashioned  like  to  you. 

Jest,  weeping,  daring  beauty,  too, 

Starlight  and  jocund  dawn  ; 
I  learned  them  everyone  from  you, 

That  now  are  lost  and  gone. 

Old  loves,  old  house  worn  dear  and  thin, 

One  thing  is  left  of  all ;  — 
I  hear  the  little  rains  begin 

Along  the  orchard  wall. 


49 


THE  STUBBLE 

S  this  sad  void  all  that  is  left  of  Spring, 

Of  fire  and  dream,  of  quick  and  delicate  days  ? 
And  must  all  they  who  pass  along  these  ways, 
Come  to  this  silence  of  remembering  ? 
I,  too,  in  the  young  year  have  had  a  part ; 
Once  was  it  hard  to  doubt  as  hard  to  grieve ; 
So  easy  once,  so  easy  to  believe  !  — 
Now  all  my  harvest  is  a  troubled  heart. 
Yet  has  not  doubt  its  place,  and  so  its  right  ? 
Its  dreams  and  visions,  faint  but  unforgot  ? 
Its  longing  mood  whence  breaks  some  sure,  glad  thing, 
Higher  than  shrine,  or  star,  or  evenlight  ? 
Lord  of  the  stubble,  though  I  see  Thee  not, 
About  me  sounds  the  Rumor  of  the  Spring ! 


A  LITTLE  SONG  OF  LIFE 

GLAD  that  I  live  am  I ; 
That  the  sky  is  blue ; 
Glad  for  the  country  lanes, 
And  the  fall  of  dew. 

After  the  sun  the  rain  ; 
After  the  rain  the  sun  ; 
This  is  the  way  of  life, 
Till  the  work  be  done. 

All  that  we  need  to  do, 
Be  we  low  or  high, 
Is  to  see  that  we  grow 
Nearer  the  sky. 


51 


COMING  BACK 

DARESAY  if  I  were  to  tell, 

What  I  do  miss  or  here  or  there, 
In  this  old  town  I  love  so  well  — 
What  shrill  of  laughter  down  the  air ! 

Each  door  was  wide  and  painted  white ; 
And  every  day  its  plate  of  brass, 
A  small  maid-servant  polished  bright, 
Until  it  shone  like  any  glass. 

Each  Covenanter  name  stood  plain, 
A  mellow  mouthful,  yet  pricked  through 
With  fighting  yesters,  heard  again 
Like  clash  of  spears  across  the  dew. 

A  hundred  things  and  more  are  gone 
In  this  old  town  where'er  I  pass ; 
But  most  of  all,  from  dawn  to  dawn, 
I  miss  the  little  plates  of  brass ! 


T 


THE  THREE  WREATHS 

HREE  wreaths  make  I  in  the  wood, 

Of  the  white  herb  that  I  should, 
Of  the  sad  herb  growing  tall 
By  a  gusty  country  wall. 


One  is  for  a  graybeard  dead 
Many  an  autumn  come  and  fled ; 
One  for  a  hand's  length  of  mold 
Covering  a  head  of  gold. 

One  for  Long  Since.     This  I  make 
With  my  very  heart  a-break  ;  — 
Listen  to  that  footstep  pass, 
Down  the  wind  of  Hallowmas ! 


S3 


THE  DAFFODILS 

NOW  through  the  April  land  doth  pass, 
As  through  the  slim,  Sicilian  grass, 
The  Vision  of  the  Daffodils  — 
Persephone!  Persephone! 
And  ever  still  Persephone  ! 

This  antique  cry  the  weather  fills. 

It  is  the  old  mood  of  the  spring, 

A  sweet  and  a  heart-breaking  thing  — 

The  budding  joy,  the  vanished  good ; 
For,  though  we  pluck  the  daffodils, 
Or  walk  with  laughter  on  the  hills, 

Yet  go  we  empty  through  the  wood ! 


54 


T 


THE    ROOM 

OWNS,  lovers,  quarrels,  bloom 
All  change  from  day  to  day, 
But  not  that  stedfast  room, 
Far  and  far  away. 


The  stiff  chairs  ranged  around, 
The  blue  jar  flowered  wide, 

The  quick,  close,  racing  sound 
Of  poplar  trees  outside  — 

I  daresay  all  are  there ; 

There  still  two  pictures  keep  — 
The  girl  so  tall  and  fair ; 

Christ  with  His  foolish  sheep. 


55 


o 


THE  CRAB  APPLE  TREE 

H,  solitary,  blow  ! 

Color  of  rose  and  snow  ; 
Blow,  strange,  new-budded  tree, 
All  vagrant  with  the  bee. 


Oh,  dear  for  old-time's  sake  ! 
Oh,  dear  for  old  heart-break ! 
Fair  boughs  of  April-tide, 
Fair  boughs  by  the  roadside. 


THE  HERETICS 

NOW,  who  are  these  out  in  the  night, 
Blown  naked  in  the  worrying  gust  ? 
Gray  mist  across  your  candlelight, 

Mean  shapes  along  the  unresting  dust? 

These  are  the  Hunted  Ones  you  see, 
Who  tireless  speed  from  land  to  land ; 

Freemen  who  would  that  you  were  free ; 
Hark  to  the  Hunters  close  at  hand ! 

A  halt,  a  call,  an  edged  cry  — 
But  not  a  foot  stirs  on  the  floor ; 

"  Follow  and  dream  ;  follow  and  die  !  " 

Untouched  the  latch  upon  the  door. 

Mean  shapes  from  all  the  dark  apart, 
Gray  mist  across  your  candlelight, 

We  stir,  we  shake  you  to  the  heart ; 
And  then  are  gone  into  the  night. 

Out  in  your  orchards  in  the  sun, 
You  count  the  rosy  harvests  nigh  ; 

A  gasping  few,  and  one  by  one, 
Without  the  walls  we  pass  you  by. 

Thin  laughter  dwindles  down  the  grass ; 

You  jeer,  though  scarce  you  know  at  what ; 
You  point  gross  fingers  where  we  pass ; 

The  dust  dies  out ;  we  are  forgot. 

57 


We  come  and  go ;  we  come  again  ; 

Nor  loaf,  nor  cloak  your  dole,  nor  shed 
Wherein  to  house  us  from  the  rain  ; 

Nor  of  one  bough  the  apples  red. 

A  hundred  towns  to  east,  to  west, 
Scatter  our  ashes  to  the  wind ; 

Ever  we  speed  upon  the  quest ; 
Ever  the  Hunters  ride  behind. 

Thin  laughter,  cackle  or  grow  still ; 

Cold  doors,  unbar  or  shut  us  out ; 
We  are  of  them  that  do  God's  will ; 

The  Hunt  shall  end  in  wreck  and  rout! 


FOR  A  GUEST  CHAMBER 

LANES  down  which  they  drive  the  kine ; 
Fields  where  they  do  plow  ; 
Orchards  —  flagons  of  old  wine  — 
Be  remembered  now. 

Think  of  gardens  full  of  bees  ; 
Gusts  that  fleeting  pass  ; 
Think  of  tall  laburnum  trees, 
Blazing  in  the  grass. 

Noise  and  rout  are  folded  up ; 
Only  Sleep  is  here  : 
Sleep  that  comes  with  quiet  cup  ; 
Drink,  oh,  dearest  dear ! 

Safe  as  dew,  as  clear  of  fret, 
Then  let  Dark  draw  nigh ; 
For  a  candle  God  has  set 
Somewhere  in  the  sky. 


59 


TO  ONE  LONG  FORGOT 

WOULD  not  know  you  if  you  came  — 

(  Think  it  no  wrong  ! )  — 
The  years  have  kept  you  from  all  blame, 

So  long,  so  long ! 

Once  more  the  crocus  flowers  are  set, 

Lance-like  and  small, 
Some  yellow  and  some  violet, 

By  the  old  wall. 

Now,  if  at  all,  your  ghost  comes  by, 

In  April  air, 
In  the  gray  light  of  earth  and  sky, 

And  lingers  there. 

Yet  were  we  lad  and  maid  together ; 

So,  of  a  truth, 
Beside  you  walks  in  this  dim  weather, 

Mine  own  lost  youth. 

Oh,  two  glad  ghosts  of  long  ago, 

In  this  dim  weather, 
By  the  old  wall  you  used  to  know, 

You  fare  together ! 


60 


THE  LAST  LOVER 

T  is  so  late !     Down  all  our  days  are  set 

November  and  the  snows ; 
Yet  now,  when  we  are  ready  to  forget, 

For  both  has  blown  a  rose. 

Right  well  we  know  nor  you  nor  I  can  make 

A  blaze  of  one  lean  spark ; 
And  it  were  all  in  vain  for  us  to  take 

This  candle  to  the  dark. 

Now  what,  in  truth,  the  fitting  word  to  say, 

And  what  the  proper  fate, 
For  growing  red  on  a  November  day, 

For  being  a  rose  so  late  ? 

Oh,  must  we  pluck  it,  sweet  though  come  to  dust. 

A  moment  hold  it  fast  ? 
Or  leave  it  to  the  gathering  of  the  gust  ?  — 

A  rose,  but  at  the  last ! 


61 


THE  BROKEN  SOLDIERS 

A  SONG  for  the  good  fighting  men, 
That  through  the  red  dawn  hurry  by ! 
For  tramp  of  hoofs  from  hill  and  fen  ; 
For  clash  of  spears  from  sky  to  sky ! 

The  wars  that  left  us  all  undone, 

And  stripped  of  each  poor  thing  but  breath, 
Battle  by  battle  shall  be  won, 

And  every  foe  thrust  down  to  death. 

For  them  the  very  stars  shall  quake ; 

For  them  the  curving  waters  dry ; 
The  abyss  grow  smooth  ;  the  crag-side  make 

A  hundred  paths  along  the  sky. 

But  we,  the  broken  soldiers,  we, 

Whom  pipe  and  hearth  do  solace  now, 

Or  when  the  warmer  weathers  be, 

A  bench  beneath  some  thick-leaved  bough - 

How  stirs  that  lost  thing  in  our  blood ! 

After  so  long  the  old  desire ! 
The  leaping  breath,  the  primal  mood, 

After  our  lean  years  at  the  fire ! 

Then,  for  the  pity  of  those  years, 

Our  throats  quick  with  some  hard  delight, 

We  cheer  that  company  of  spears, 
Until  it  dwindles  out  of  sight. 

62 


AN  APRIL  GHOST 

ALL  the  ghosts  I  ever  knew, 
White,  and  thinly  calling, 
Come  into  the  house  with  you, 
When  the  dew  is  falling. 

All  of  youth  that  ever  died, 
In  the  Springtime  weather, 

In  the  windy  April  tide, 
Climb  the  dusk  together. 

For  a  moment,  lad  and  maid 
Stand  up  there  all  lonely ; 

In  a  moment  fade  and  fade  — 
You  are  left,  you  only. 


AT  COCKCROW 

THE  stars  are  gone  out  spark  by  spark ; 
A  cock  crows ;  up  the  cloudy  lane, 
A  cart  toils  creaking  through  the  dark : 
Lord,  in  Thy  sight  all  roads  are  plain, 
Or  run  they  up  or  down, 
Sheep-tracks,  highways  to  town, 
Or  even  that  little  one, 
Beneath  the  hedge,  where  seldom  falls  the  sun. 

If  it  were  light,  I  would  go  west ; 
I  would  go  east  across  the  land ; 
But  it  is  dark;  I  needs  must  rest 
Till  morn  breaks  forth  on  every  hand  : 
Lord,  choose  for  me, 
The  road  that  runs  to  Thee. 


HER  SON 

THE  narrow  poplars  down  her  lane  a-row, 
That  look  so  black  and  then  so  gusty  white, 
She  hates  the  old  and  foolish  way  they  grow  ; 
Just  now  they  hid  him  all  too  soon  from  sight. 
But  back  into  the  house  she  needs  must  go, 
To  spread  the  board,  prepare  the  meal  aright, 
The  savory  things  that  little  lads  love  so  — 
Round  cakes,  spiced  meat,  and  apples  red  and  bright. 
Oh  dreams,  but  dreams  !     And  but  a  sweet  one,  too, 
That  yester,  till  it  turned  too  dark  to  see, 

She  fashioned  a  small  garment  for  her  lad 

That  shadowy  garment,  with  its  sprig  of  blue :  — 
For  long  and  long  a  barren  mother  she  ; 
And  this  the  little  son  she  never  had  ! 


IN  MEMORIAM 


T 


HE  long  day  sped  ; 

A  roof ;  a  bed  ; 
No  years ; 
No  tears. 


FINIS 


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STAMPED  BELOW 


JUL  31  1915 


JUtf  11  1930 


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30m-6,'14 


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